There were toys in the attic. Most were broken, or rusted, or had strings missing. There were porcelain dolls that might have fetched a good price at an auction, if they still would have had all their fingers and eyes. There were picture books that would have been worth a small fortune to collectors, if the pages hadn't been slightly stained with damp and time. The children looked at the toys but didn't play with them. They were not the playful kind. Occasionally, new owners moved into the house but never for long. About once a decade there'd be a small child, a girl or a boy, who, on a slow afternoon, entered the attic. The parents then buried a body and moved on. The child stayed. It was a big attic; there was always room for one more.